Do you know the source of the cooling breeze, my brothers? It was a fairy. She was out in the night sky for a ride on her flying throne. Allow me to tell you something about this fairy, Manto bhai. There are many here who came to their graves well after me, to them a fairy is a pretty woman with gossamer wings. All this is the white man’s imagination. Do you know whom we call a fairy in Farsi? A disembodied spirit who appears in man’s life disguised as a beautiful woman. Do you know why? The fairy actually wants to imprison the man by deceiving him with the pretence of love. She controls him according to her wishes; disobeying her leads to death. Sometimes it seems to me that this is how love comes into our lives, every love affair is death; doesn’t it seem as though each one of us has been imprisoned by a different fairy till eternity, Manto bhai?
The fairy was named Mahrukh. The sight of the handsome Benazir made her gasp. Could such a beautiful man possibly exist in this universe? But clearly he could, as she could see. Oh, I must have him, what sort of fairy am I if I cannot snare him? Mahrukh descended on the terrace, she felt that the night was magical not because of the moonlight but because of the lustre of Benazir’s beauty. She pressed her lips against the sleeping Benazir’s. And then? Then she took him away to her fairyland.
When the servants and maids awoke, they found the prince gone. Where was he? Even after combing the entire palace and the garden, he was nowhere to be found. The nawab and his wives broke down in tears. And not just them. The flowers and trees and birds and fountains all began to cry too. Where had their favourite prince disappeared? Who had taken him away? Obviously, they couldn’t find him anywhere in the kingdom.
Benazir remained imprisoned in Mahrukh’s fairyland. Years passed, but he couldn’t forget his home. Mahrukh’s attempts to win him over with all kinds of temptations did not succeed. Then she told Benazir one day, ‘You know you’re my prisoner, don’t you?’
— I do.
— Then you must obey me.
— Take me home.
— I can’t do that. But I can’t bear to see you so unhappy, Benazir. I love you.
— Then take me home. Benazir grasped Mahrukh’s hand.
Mahrukh laughed. —Prisoners cannot return home, Benazir. But there’s something I can do for you. When I visit my father every evening, you can take a ride too. I can give you a magic horse. You could take a ride on it for a couple of hours; it’ll make you feel better. The magic horse will take you wherever you want to go. But wherever you go, you must promise not to give your heart to anyone else. If you do, you will be punished suitably. Don’t forget, ours may be a romantic relationship, but you’re still my prisoner.
Benazir accepted Mahrukh’s proposal. What choice did he have? You have no idea of the punishment meted out by fairies, my brothers, it’s even worse than hell. One night, as he was flying about on his magic horse, Benazir spotted a lovely garden beneath him. And glittering in the moonlight in the middle of that garden was an exquisite palace. Descending to the garden, Benazir hid behind a tree to check whether anyone else was present. A little later he spotted a few young women beside a fountain. And do you know what he saw among them? A vision like the full moon amidst the stars. It was princess Badr-e-Munir, daughter of another nawab named Masood Shahr. Her beauty glowed through her cotton dress like a candle on its stand. Benazir could not tear his eyes away from her. Then he remembered the fairy Mahrukh. You mustn’t give your heart to anyone else, Benazir. But what was Benazir to do now? He had already given his heart away at first sight. This was how it used to be in our lives, my brothers. The instant two pairs of eyes met, sparks flew. Do you know why? Because our lives were actually spent like prisoners. There was no relationship between love and marriage in our lives. Love was a sin. The woman’s place was in the ladies’ chambers; she wasn’t allowed to set eyes on anyone except her brothers. And men couldn’t set eyes on any women at all. So all it took was for two sets of eyes to meet. Love, and sin. All this must not be allowed. Get them married as quickly as possible. But what did this lead to? Men were forced to visit brothels, and women had secret affairs. It’s human nature, Manto bhai, human nature—who can stop it? Could anyone stop Mir sahib? It was because they couldn’t that they branded him a lunatic. This is what society is good at, Manto bhai. When it cannot accept you, it can stamp you with the label of a mad man. You’re outside civilized society then, outside the tamaddun. Deaf, mute, speechless.
Yes, let me tell you what happened after this. That was the first time that Benazir set eyes on Badr-e-Munir. I’m reminded of Mir sahib’s sher:
Let us be addicted to each other always
Never less eager, never indifferent
Badr-e-Munir fainted when she saw how handsome Benazir was. Her friend Nazm-un-Nissa, the prime minister’s daughter and extraordinarily beautiful herself, sprinkled rosewater on her to revive her. When she recovered, the princess pretended to be angry, saying, ‘Who has dared to intrude in my garden?’ Actually, of course, an entirely different sort of fire was raging within this statement. This is what first love is like, isn’t it? The game of mock quarrels and making up continued. They made silent glances at each other. Then Benazir told the princess everything—even the details of how he was being held prisoner by the fairy Mahrukh. Do you know what Badr-e-Munir said? ‘I cannot share you with anyone. You can live with your fairy then, don’t come back here.’ Grasping the princess’s feet, Benazir said, ‘I don’t even want to know whether Mahrukh loves me or not. I cannot live without you. But I have to go back this one time. If I get my freedom I’ll be back at the same time tomorrow. I am leaving my heart with you, it’s only my body that will return to Mahrukh’s prison.’
Everything was prepared for Benazir’s return the next day. Badr-e-Munir dressed as though it was her wedding night. The room grew redolent with flowers and the fragrance of ittar. The food, the wine, the wine glasses were all readied. Books of poetry by the Farsi poets Juhuri and Naziri were placed by the pillows on the bed. Benazir arrived as scheduled. After some conversation they went to bed, embracing each other with their glasses of wine. No description can do justice to all this. When they emerged from the room, Benazir was glowing even more, and Badr-e-Munir was full of blushes. But the hours marched forward, and Benazir had to go back. So it went on, day after day.
But human beings are never granted unadulterated happiness. Mahrukh the fairy came to know of everything; she even witnessed it all with her own eyes. Mahrukh was furious when Benazir returned that day. She began to spit fire. ‘Prepare to be punished, traitor.’ Summoning a djinn, Mahrukh directed, ‘Take him to the desert and cast him into a dry pit, and cover its mouth with a rock.’ The djinn took him some food once a day. Benazir began to live again as a prisoner in the dark, dry pit. Meanwhile, Badr-e-Munir wilted like a flower as she waited day after day for Benazir. You couldn’t bear to glance at such a flower. She passed days on end without sleeping. Then one night, she slept eventually, and in her dream she saw the pit in the desert, Benazir’s voice emerging from it. She woke up. Hearing of her dream, her friend Nazm-un-Nissa said, ‘Don’t weep anymore. I will go into the desert and rescue Benazir. If I live, you will have him back.’ Disguising herself as a monk, Nazm-un-Nissa left, carrying a veena.
One full moon night she was playing the veena in the desert. The birds and beasts forgot to sleep when they heard her playing; a breeze sprang up above the heads of the trees, and the moon looked at her in astonishment. Feroze Shah, the prince of djinns, was passing by at that moment on his flying throne. Descending to earth and realizing that this was a beautiful woman disguised as a monk, he was captivated by the sight of Nazm. Noticing his enchantment, Nazm said, ‘Either turn your mind to Allah, or go back.’ Feroze answered, ‘Yes, I will go back, but first I want to hear you play.’ The sun rose as Nazm played and even Feroze Shah, even a man like him, wept piteously. Is there anything women cannot do, Manto bhai? Do you know what happened after that? Feroze Shah took Nazm to his father’s court on his flying thro
ne. She even had to play the veena at the request of the king of djinns. No one could hold back their tears when they heard her playing. And Feroze Shah? My life will be meaningless without this woman, he concluded. Nazm stayed on at the palace of the king of djinns and began to toy with Feroze, playing hot and cold with him. One day Feroze flung himself at her feet, asking, ‘Why do you make me suffer so? I cannot live without you.’ Sensing her opportunity, Nazm said with a smile, ‘Listen closely to what I tell you. If you can do as I say, you might benefit too.’
— Tell me what I have to do.
— You’re a djinn. If you want to, you can easily find out where Mahrukh has imprisoned Benazir. If you help, Benazir will be saved, and you will get what you want.
On Feroze Shah’s instructions, the djinns fanned out in different directions in search of Benazir. A few days later, one of them returned with information. Feroze Shah wrote a stern letter to Mahrukh, threatening dire consequences if she did not free Benazir. She would also have to swear not to have relationships with humans ever again. Pleading guilty, Mahrukh requested that her father not be informed of any of this. This was how Benazir was finally freed.
After this, Feroze Shah, Benazir and Nazm-un-Nissa went off to Badr-e-Munir on the flying throne. The princess fainted on hearing that Benazir was back. When she had recovered, Nazm-un-Nissa told her, ‘I have had to imprison someone else in order to bring Benazir back to you. Now I have to send him back.’ And then? The lovers billed and cooed all night. They simply couldn’t stop talking. Words are such a trap, Manto bhai, if only people understood this.
Benazir wrote a letter to Badr-e-Munir’s father Masood Shah, revealing his identity and proposing marriage. The nawab accepted with pleasure. Masood Shah’s city erupted in joy. Then Benazir and Badr-e-Munir were married with great pomp and ceremony. What was the wedding like? I have lain in my grave for so long that I have forgotten the language to describe it. Then, at Benazir’s request, Nazm-un-Nissa’s father also agreed to her marriage to Feroze Shah, who returned with his bride to his kingdom on his flying throne. Benazir, too, prepared to return home with his bride.
Did you enjoy this sweet tale of happy endings amidst the stories of ill-luck that the two of us have been telling you, my brothers? But what did Mir Hasan get for writing this masnavi? Nothing at all. It’s just that, after all these years, here in this darkness of the grave, I was able to recount this hikayat to all of you. What more can a poet expect from his fate anyway?
12
Every step makes the distance to the destination palpable
The desolate forest walks even faster, leaving me behind
yabaat Mirza sahib, well done, you have brought pleasures to hell. But where do you suppose the stories of the Benazirs and the Badr-e-Munirs have been lost? Have you noticed how animated our friends have become? As though plates of shahi kebab have just been served at our table at Aziz’s restaurant, and it will get even more exciting with the meat and the hashish and the ribaldry. Our Captain Wahid was chasing some woman or the other at the time. Which is all very well, but is there any sense in being besotted with a woman all the time, Mirza sahib? The Captain was perpetually terrified that she would run off with another man. Let her if she wants to, for heaven’s sake, is the world running short of whores? Pardon me, Mirza sahib, I can never mind my tongue. If I let slip something like this in Ismat’s presence, she would look at me wide-eyed; she was the one woman who could shake me and say, ‘Who’re you calling a whore, you bastard? Which whore gave birth to you?’ Not that Ismat ever said any such thing. Her sense of propriety was unmatched. She would only look at me with widened eyes; you had to decipher her meaning from those eyes. Never mind Ismat, can’t you see all these people are dying to hear the story of Aziz in hell?
So, one day our Captain was drooping over the table like a vine uprooted by a storm. Apparently he hadn’t met the woman in several days. The more we tried to cheer him up, the more the bastard curled up like an earthworm, unmoved by our laughter and jokes and profanities. Who was this Majnu in our midst, for heaven’s sake? And yet, think of his name. Captain, Captain Wahid. After much effort on our part he finally asked tearfully, ‘What are women really like, Saadat bhai?’
— What?
— Do they know how to love?
— How should I know? I lost my temper.
— Tell us, yaar … Ashiq clapped me on my back. ‘Tell Captain that story of yours about the cat. He won’t go sniffing after just one woman all his life when he hears it.’
The table erupted in laughter. Looking at us with tears in his eyes, Captain said, ‘But I was asking about women. Where do cats come into it?’
— Let Manto tell you. Ashiq winked at me. In other words, out with it, quick. Let this damned Captain’s romance be buggered. Ashiq was an expert at teasing people.
Comforting Captain, I said, ‘See, Captain, I swear by the lord, I can never understand cats and women.’
— Why? Cats are cats and women are women. What’s so difficult about understanding them?
— We had a cat at home, you know. Once a year that damned cat would start wailing so loudly, it defies description. You must have heard a cat wail. It makes the entire world sound like it’s in mourning. And its wails would bring forth a tomcat from somewhere. Then they would screech and fight and draw blood.
— And then?
— What do you suppose? The cat would become the mother of four kittens. The net result of all that fighting was those four kittens.
— You’re a fucking bastard, a harami ka bachha, said the Captain, slumping on the table again. Meanwhile, Aziz’s restaurant resounded with laughter and catcalls.
But Mirza sahib, in spite of all this tomfoolery, I wasn’t enjoying myself anymore. The gambling was becoming tiresome, and the mornings and evenings at Aziz’s restaurant had nothing more to offer me. Do you know the thought that crossed my mind? That I was actually meant to do something else. But what? I had no idea, Mirza sahib. Then suddenly, the hands of the clock changed direction one day. This is probably how life gives us things even without asking. Provided, of course, we have the capacity to accept them.
It was in the same Aziz’s restaurant that my fortune took a turn, my brothers. I met Bari Alig and Ata Muhammad Chihati. They were older than I was. They would visit Aziz’s restaurant from time to time for a cup of tea. Abdul Rahman sahib had started a newspaper named Masawat—Equality—where Bari sahib used to work. One day in Aziz’s restaurant, I was sitting at the same table as Bari Alig sahib. There were several others too. Suddenly the subject of the death sentence came up. Was the death sentence right or wrong? Did anyone have the right to sentence a criminal to death? Explain this to us, sir, I requested Bari sahib. If I murder you, why cannot I be killed? He presented a strong argument, explaining why retaliating for murder with murder cannot be the option. There is no moral principle that justifies the death sentence. This led someone to mention Victor Hugo’s book The Last Days of the Condemned. You can’t have heard of Victor Hugo, Mirza sahib. He was one of the finest French poets and novelists. I was startled, because I had the book at home. ‘I have this book,’ I told Bari sahib at once. ‘Would you like to read it again?’
Bari sahib looked at me for a long time. Who knew what he saw? Then he said, ‘Bring the book to my office tomorrow.’
I couldn’t sleep all night, Mirza sahib. I was proud of myself. The book of Hugo’s that Bari sahib had mentioned was actually in my possession, and I would take it to him the next day. But what would I talk to a man like him about? Would he even talk to me? As I pondered over all this, I imagined a complete dialogue between us. This was also how stories were born within me, Mirza sahib. A face would float up in my mind, and I’d knit a tale. The characters would come alive.
Bari sahib took me under his wing. I began to frequent his newspaper office every day. I was bowled over by his arguments, his erudition, his appreciation of things. I wrote about him later in my book Ganjay Farishtey—Bald An
gels. You cannot forget such a person all your life. At the same time, he was something of a coward as well. But once you got talking to him, once you heard him laugh, you were hooked. Bari sahib had sensed my restlessness. He told me to read Urdu literature. It was at his behest that I began to read Gorky and Gogol and Pushkin and Chekov and Oscar Wilde. The great writers of the world. As I read them, Mirza sahib, I seemed to see the road before me clearly—I would be a writer too, writing was the only mission I could pursue. Do you know what Bari sahib did then? He made me translate Hugo’s The Last Days of the Condemned into Urdu. I stuck to my task for two weeks straight, not touching a drop of alcohol. Then my Urdu translation was actually published by Lahore’s Urdu Bookstall—Aasir Ki Ye Sarguzasht. I was finally someone. So you think I’m useless, you bastards? Here, you swine, look at this. This book has Saadat Hasan Manto’s name on it.
I began to write film reviews regularly for Masawat. Bari sahib believed that the short story writer in Manto was born in those reviews. I wanted to do several things at once, Mirza sahib. I translated Oscar Wilde’s play Vera together with Hasan Abbas. I took a bottle of rum to Akhtar Sherani. He drank all night long and corrected my manuscript. I translated several Russian stories too at the time for Humayun and Alamgir magazines.
Then Masawat closed down suddenly. Bari sahib went off to Lahore with a job in a newspaper. I used to wander about in Amritsar’s bylanes, along with Abu Sayeed Quraishi, Abbas, and Ashiq Bari. We called ourselves The Free Thinkers’ Group. We could do as we liked, think as we liked. We considered starting a revolution. Abbas and I had even mapped an overland route to Russia. But after Bari sahib’s departure for Lahore, I was out of a job once again. I couldn’t concentrate on writing either. Once in a while I had the urge to just go back to gambling; damn it all, at least the hours would pass lightly. But gambling no longer excited me, Mirza sahib.
Dozakhnama Page 10
